Starting with the last wish on the last page of the Corrupt Wish Thread.
So FoamFighter wishes that he, she, or it were God.
Mazel tov, FoamFighter! You’ve become the Almighty. That’s not quite “my son, the doctor,” but you’re doing not so bad. God forbid you should bring back a Nobel prize while you’re at it–after all, is one lousy little Nobel too much to ask? (I got off the phone with my very Jewish mother not too long ago–can you tell?)
Ahem. Right. Back to the OP. So you’re God. And what a royal PITA it turns out to be. Everyone’s constantly pestering you for favors, you have to decide how much famine, war, pestilence, and plague to mete out, and the Angel’s Union is about to strike if they don’t get a bigger allocation for wing and halo maintenance in the upcoming fiscal eon. (You could probably outsource a bunch of the unskilled labor–the rough cutting and soul basting, etc.–to the PRC, but the quality of the finished product always suffers.) You didn’t sign up with The Prime Mover, Inc. for this kind of stress. You need a new job, NOW. But, of course, there’s no power higher than you to grant it, so you’re stuck.